Leigh Bardugo Book Quotes

You know the problem with heroes and saints, Nikolai?” I asked as I closed the book’s cover and headed for the door. “They always end up dead.

I need someone who can be invisible, who can become a ghost. Do you think you can do that?" I'm already a ghost, she thought. I died in the hold of a slaver ship. "i think so.

She read paperbacks too, one after the next like she was chain-smoking—romance, science fiction, old pulp fantasy. All she wanted to do was sit, unbothered in a circle of lamplight, and live someone else’s life.

Kaz reached into his coat pocket. "Here," he said and handed Jesper a slender book with an elaborate cover. "Are we going to read to each other?" "Just flip it open to the back." Jesper opened the book and peered at the last page, puzzled. "So?" "Hold it up so we don't have to look at your ugly face." "My face has character. Besides - oh!" "An excellent read, isn't it?" "Who knew I had a taste for literature?

There had been a time when words had been the only place he could find solace. No book ever lost patience with him or told him to sit still. When his tutors had thrown up their hands in frustration, it was the library that had taught Nikolai military history, strategy, chemistry, astronomy. Each spine had been an open door away whispering, Come in, come in. Here is the land you’ve never seen before. Here is a place to hide when you’re frightened, to play when you’re bored, to rest when the world seems unkind.

Just a moment," David said, planting a finger on the page to mark his place in his book. "What was your name ?" "Yuri Vedenen, moi soverenyi." "Yuri Veneden, if you upset my wife again, I will kill you where you stand." The monk swallowed. "Yes, moi soverenyi." "Oh, David," Genya said, taking his hand. "You've never theatened to murder anyone for me before." "Haven't I?" He murmured distractedly, placed a kiss on her knuckles, and continued reading.

His monstrous queen. His gentle ruler.

Stories were immutable. And what was a library but a house full of stories?

Stories exist in all worlds. They are immutable. Like gold.

I remember only how I fell into books, never to rise from their pages, how I was never truly awake until I began to dream of other worlds”.

So you know the best way to find Grisha who don't want to be found? Look for miracles and listen to bedtime stories.

I'd like to think of myself as delightfully complex.

What did she say?” asked Matthias. Nina coughed and took his arm, leading him away. “She said you’re a very nice fellow, and a credit to the Fjerdan race. Ooh, look, blini! I haven’t had proper blini in forever.” “That word she used: babink,” he said. “You’ve called me that before. What does it mean?” Nina directed her attention to a stack of paper-thin buttered pancakes. “It means sweetie pie.” “Nina—” “Barbarian.” “I was just asking, there’s no need to name-call.” “No, babink means barbarian.” Matthias’ gaze snapped back to the old woman, his glower returning to full force. Nina grabbed his arm. It was like trying to hold on to a boulder. “She wasn’t insulting you! I swear!” “Barbarian isn’t an insult?” he asked, voice rising. “No. Well, yes. But not in this context. She wanted to know if you’d like to play Princess and Barbarian.” “It’s a game?” “Not exactly.” “Then what is it?” Nina couldn’t believe she was actually going to attempt to explain this. As they continued up the street, she said, “In Ravka, there’s a popular series of stories about, um, a brave Fjerdan warrior—” “Really?” Matthias asked. “He’s the hero?” “In a manner of speaking. He kidnaps a Ravkan princess—” “That would never happen.” “In the story it does, and”—she cleared her throat—“they spend a long time getting to know each other. In his cave.” “He lives in a cave?” “It’s a very nice cave. Furs. Jeweled cups. Mead.” “Ah,” he said approvingly. “A treasure hoard like Ansgar the Mighty. They become allies, then?” Nina picked up a pair of embroidered gloves from another stand. “Do you like these? Maybe we could get Kaz to wear something with flowers. Liven up his look.” “How does the story end? Do they fight battles?” Nina tossed the gloves back on the pile in defeat. “They get to know each other intimately.” Matthias’ jaw dropped. “In the cave?” “You see, he’s very brooding, very manly,” Nina hurried on. “But he falls in love with the Ravkan princess and that allows her to civilize him—” “To civilize him?” “Yes, but that’s not until the third book.” “There are three?” “Matthias, do you need to sit down?” “This culture is disgusting. The idea that a Ravkan could civilize a Fjerdan—” “Calm down, Matthias.” “Perhaps I’ll write a story about insatiable Ravkans who like to get drunk and take their clothes off and make unseemly advances toward hapless Fjerdans.” “Now that sounds like a party.” Matthias shook his head, but she could see a smile tugging at his lips. She decided to push the advantage. “We could play,” she murmured, quietly enough so that no one around them could hear. “We most certainly could not.” “At one point he bathes her.” Matthias’ steps faltered. “Why would he—” “She’s tied up, so he has to.” “Be silent.” “Already giving orders. That’s very barbarian of you. Or we could mix it up. I’ll be the barbarian and you can be the princess. But you’ll have to do a lot more sighing and trembling and biting your lip.” “How about I bite your lip?” “Now you’re getting the hang of it, Helvar.

That was the truth of magic—blood and guts and semen and spit, organs kept in jars, maps for hunting humans, the skulls of unborn infants. The problem wasn’t books and fairy tales, just that they told half the story, offering up the illusion of a world where only the villains paid in blood, the ogre stepmothers, the wicked stepsisters, where magic was just and without sacrifice.

Comfort was the drug she hadn’t understood until it was too late and she was hooked on cups of tea and book-lined shelves, nights uninterrupted by the wail of sirens and the ceaseless churning of helicopters overhead.

he could never shake the thought that he was seeing only one world when there might be many, that there were lost places, maybe even lost people who might come to life for him if he just squinted hard enough or found the right magic words. Books, with their promises of enchanted doorways and secret places, only made it worse.

Alone in the gloom, surrounded by books, it was hard not to feel overwhelmed.

Maybe that's why I wrote this letter,Alina. Maybe it's a promise-that I'll survive tomorrow and the day after that, and somehow, no matter what it takes, I'll see you safe again... M.

So far today, I’d nearly died and possibly started a riot. Maybe I could set fire to something before breakfast. Bardugo, Leigh (2013-06-04). Siege and Storm (The Grisha Book 2) (p. 335). Henry Holt and Co. (BYR). Kindle Edition.

Suffocating beneath a pile of books seems an appropriate way to go for a research assistant.

They wondered at her bruised and mysterious court: the raven-haired Squaller with her sharp tongue, the Ruined One with her black prayer shawl and hideous scars, the pale scholar who huddled away with his books and strange instruments. These were the sorry remnants of the Second Army—unfit company for a Saint.

Danny spent most of his time at the museum or in his room with the door locked, lost in books he consumed like a flame eating air, trying to stay alight.

You have to be kidding,' Turner exclaimed. 'He's a loaded weapon.' 'He's barely a squirt gun.

Where were you?” he asked. “I was getting worried.” “I was waylaid by a gang of angry bears,” I murmured into his shoulder. “You got lost again?” “I don’t know where you get these ideas.” Bardugo, Leigh (2013-06-04). Siege and Storm (The Grisha Book 2) (p. 9). Henry Holt and Co. (BYR). Kindle Edition.

You shouldn’t be ashamed to be different,” her mother had said when Alex had summoned the courage to ask for the name change. “I called you Galaxy for a reason.” Alex didn’t disagree. Most of the books she read and the TV shows she watched told her different was okay. Different was great! Except no one was different quite like her.

Please tell me you didn't bring all of Morozova's journals,' I said. 'Of course I did.' I rolled my eyes. There had to be at least fifteen leatherbound books. 'Maybe they'll make good kindling.' 'Is she kidding?' David asked, looking concerned. 'I can never tell if she's kidding.

I did apprentice with a Fjerdan shipbuilder. And a Zemeni gunsmith. And a civil engineer from the Han Province of Bolh. Tried my hand at poetry for a while. The results were … unfortunate. These days, being Sturmhond requires most of my attention.” Bardugo, Leigh (2013-06-04). Siege and Storm (The Grisha Book 2) (p. 132). Henry Holt and Co. (BYR). Kindle Edition.

I think the hard work of writing is just how long a book is terrible before it's good.

I remember only how I fell into books, never to rise from their pages, how I was never truly awake until I began to dream of other worlds.

Jesper had never really been a great reader. He loved stories but he hated sitting still. And the books assigned to him for school seemed designed to make his mind wander.

Three pairs of socks, one pair of trousers, an extra shirt. One canteen. A tin cup and plate. A cylindrical slide rule, a chronometer, a jar of spruce sap, my collection of anticorrosives -” “You were only supposed to pack what you need.” David gave an empathetic nod. “Exactly.” “Please tell me you didn’t bring all of Morozova’s journals,” I said. “Of course I did.” I rolled my eyes. There had to be at least fifteen leather-bound books. “Maybe they’ll make good kindling.” “Is she kidding?” David asked, looking concerned. “I can never tell if she’s kidding.

The library was also a little temperamental. If you weren’t specific enough in your request or if it couldn’t find books on your desired subject, the shelf would just keep shaking and eventually start to give off heat and emit a high, frantic whine, until you snatched the Albemarle Book and murmured a soothing incantation over its pages while gently caressing its spine.

I would have come for you. And If I cound't walk I'd crawl to you, and no matter how brocken we were, we would fight our way out together-knives drawn. Because thats what we do, we never stop fighting.

Remember, there is no expiration date on your talent. I did not publish my first book until I was 35 years old. If you have a story to tell, it doesn't matter when you tell it. Just get it onto the page and let go of the idea that somehow it's less worthwhile because it took you a little longer to get there than it took others.

David, back propped against a tree, a book in his hands as Genya fell asleep with her head in his lap

« I’ve been waiting for you a long time, Alina,” he said. “You and I are going to change the world. » Leigh Bardugo. « Shadow and Bone. » Apple Books.

« What was it? The crisp edge of a winter wind. Bare branches. The smell of absence, the smell of night. » Leigh Bardugo. « Grisha 02 - Siege and Storm. » Apple Books.

(...) we would be crushed and no one would ever know, wild-flowers pressed between the pages of a book and forgotten.

that’s what heroes do.” “I don’t want him to be a hero!” “He can’t change who he is any more than you can stop being Grisha.” I’d railed at him for wanting me to be something I couldn’t, and all the while, I’d demanded the same thing from him. “You know the problem with heroes and saints, Nikolai?” I asked as I closed the book’s cover and headed for the door. “They always end up dead.

Now, I’ll take the prisoner back to her quarters, and you can run off and do … whatever it is you do when everyone else is working.” Ivan scowled. “I don’t think—” “Clearly. Why start now?” Bardugo, Leigh (2013-06-04). Siege and Storm (The Grisha Book 2) (p. 32). Henry Holt and Co. (BYR). Kindle Edition.

Students huddled against the wall and under their chairs, probably thinking they were all about to die. "Nothing to worry about, everyone!" Jesper called. "Just a little target practice in the courtyard." "This way," said Wylan, ushering them through a door covered in elaborate scrollwork. "Oh, you mustn't," said the scholar rushing after them, robes flapping. "Not the rare books room!" "Do you want to shake hands again?

The problem wasn't books and fairy tales, just that they told half the story, offering up the illusion of a world where only the villains paid in blood, the ogre stepmother, the wicked stepsisters, where magic was just and without sacrifice.

It was strange to Alex that the smell of books was always the same. The ancient documents in the climate-controlled stacks and glass cases of Beinecke. The research rooms at Sterling. The changeable library of Lethe House. They all had the same scent as the fluorescent-lit reading rooms full of cheap paperbacks she’d lived in as a kid.

In his brief time as a student, he'd fallen in love with the Boeksplein. Jesper had never been a great reader. He loved stories, but he hated sitting still, and the books assigned to him for school seemed designed to make his mind wander. At the Boeksplein, wherever his eyes strayed, there was something to occupy them; leaded windows with stained-glass borders, iron gates worked in to figures of books and ships, the central fountain with its bearded scholar, and best of all, the gargoyles- bat-winged grotesques in mortarboard caps, and stone dragons falling asleep over books. He liked to think that whoever had built this place had known not all students were suited to quite contemplation.

The library was two stories high, its walls lined from floor to ceiling with books. A balcony ran around the second story, and its dome was made entirely of glass so that the whole room glowed with morning light. A few reading chairs and small tables were set by the walls. At the room’s center, directly beneath the sparkling glass dome, was a round table ringed by a circular bench.

He would forget about it for weeks, sometimes months at a time, but he could never shake the thought that he was seeing only one world when there might be many, that there were lost places, maybe even lost people who might come to life for him if he just squinted hard enough or found the right magic words. Books, with their promises of enchanted doorways and secret places, only made it worse.

Kaz squinted up at the big guns pointed out at the bay. "I've broken into banks, warehouses, mansions, museums, vaults, a rare book library, and once the bedchamber of a visiting Kaelish diplomat whose wife had a passion for emeralds. But I've never had a cannon shot at me." "There's something to be said for novelty," offered Jesper. Inej pressed her lips together. "Hopefully, it won't come to that.

In those moments, she felt something deeper than the mere need to survive, a glimpse at what it might mean if she could simply learn and stop trying so hard all the time time. She found herself fantasizing about a life not only without fear but without ambition. She would read, and go to class, and live in an apartment with good light. She would feel curious instead of panicked when people mentioned artists she didn't know, authors she'd never read. She would have a stack of books by her bedside table. She would listen to Morning Becomes Eclectic. She would get the jokes, speak the language; she would become fluent in leisure.

No book had ever lost patience with him or told him to sit still. When his tutors had thrown up their hands in frustration, it was the library that had taught Nikolai military history, strategy, chemistry, astronomy. Each spine had been an open doorway whispering, "Come in, come in. Here is a land you've never seen before. Here is a place to hide when you're frightened, to play when you're bored, to rest when the world seems unkind.

Nikolai thought he understood. There had been a time when words had been the only place he could find solace. No book ever lost patience with him or told him to sit still. When his tutors had thrown up their hands in frustration, it was the library that had taught Nikolai military history, strategy, chemistry, astronomy. Each spine had been an open doorway whispering, Come in, come in. Here is a land you've never seen before. Here is a place to hide when you're frightened, to play when you're bored, to rest when the world seems unkind. Yuri knew that solace. He had once been a scholar. Perhaps he'd like to be one again.

He’d read enough books and seen enough plays to understand what a father was meant to be—someone kind and steady who dispensed wisdom and taught you how to wield a sword and throw a punch. Actually, in most plays, the fathers got killed off and had to be avenged, but they certainly seemed wise and loving in the first act.

She would read, and go to class, and live in an apartment with good light. She would feel curious instead of panicked when people mentioned artists she didn’t know, authors she’d never read. She would have a stack of books by her bedside table. She would listen to Morning Becomes Eclectic. She would get the jokes, speak the language; she would become fluent in leisure.

No book ever lost patience with him or told him to sit still. When his tutors had thrown up their hands in frustration, it was the library that had taught Nikolai military history, strategy, chemistry, astronomy. Each spine had been an open doorway whispering, Come in, come in. Here is a land you’ve never seen before. Here is a place to hide when you’re frightened, to play when you’re bored, to rest when the world seems unkind.

What happens if you guys miss a year?” Alex had asked when Darlington first showed her how the library worked. “It happened in 1928.” “And?” “All of the books from the collection crowded into the library at once and the floor collapsed on Chester Vance, Oculus.” “Jesus, that’s horrible.” “I don’t know,” Darlington had said meditatively. “Suffocating beneath a pile of books seems an appropriate way to go for a research assistant.

She found herself fantasizing about a life not only without fear but without ambition. She would read, and go to class, and live in an apartment with good light. She would feel curious instead of panicked when people mentioned artists she didn’t know, authors she’d never read. She would have a stack of books by her bedside table. She would listen to Morning Becomes Eclectic. She would get the jokes, speak the language; she would become fluent in leisure.

Nikolai thought he understood. There had been a time when words had been the only place he could find solace. No book ever lost patience with him or told him to sit still. When his tutors had thrown up their hands in frustration, it was the library that had taught Nikolai military history, strategy, chemistry, astronomy. Each spine had been an open doorway whispering, Come in, come in. Here is a land you’ve never seen before. Here is a place to hide when you’re frightened, to play when you’re bored, to rest when the world seems unkind.

Nikolai thought he understood. There had been a time when words had been the only place he could find solace. No book ever lost patience with him or told him to sit still. When his tutors had thrown up their hands in frustration, it was the library that had taught Nikolai military history, strategy, chemistry, astronomy. Each spine had been an open doorway whispering, Come in, come in. Here is a land you’ve never seen before. Here is a place to hide when you’re frightened, to play when you’re bored, to rest when the world seems unkind.

Rollins reached for his watch. It had to be about time for the dealers to change shifts, and he liked to supervise them himself. "Son of a bitch," he exclaimed a second later. "What is it, book?" Rollins held up his watch chain. A turnip was hanging from the fob where his diamond - studded timepiece should have been. "That little bastard--" Then a thought came to him. He reached for his wallet. It was gone. So was his tie pin, the Kaelish coin pendant he wore for luck, and the gold buckles on his shoes. Rollins wondered if he should check the fillings in his teeth. "He picked your pocket?" Doughty asked incredulously. No one got one over on Pekka Rollins. No one dared. But Brekker had, and Rollins wondered if that was just the beginning. "Doughty," he said, "I think we'd best say a prayer for Jan Van Eck." "You think Brekker can best him?" "It's a long shot, but if he's not careful, I think that merch might walk himself right onto the gallows and let Brekker tighten the noose." Rollings sighed. "We better hop Van Eck kills that boy." "Why?" "Because otherwise I'll have to." Rollins straightened the knot of his painless tie and headed down to the casino floor. The problem of Kaz Brekker could wait to be solved another day. Right now there was money to be made.

«Te tendré sin armadura, Kaz Brekker. O no te tendré en absoluto»

there were plenty of times I thought, “What a splendid idea for a book. Someone else should write it. Preferably someone smarter.

When everyone knows you're a monster, you needn't waste time doing every monstrous thing

He ended as he had always suspected he would, alone in the dark.

El mundo estaba hecho de milagros, de terremotos inesperados, de tormentas que aparecían de la nada y eran capaces de cambiar un continente entero... Todo era posible

— Joder, Alex, ¿por qué sonríes? — Han intentado matarme, Hellie — dijo con un hilo de voz mientras se sumía en la oscuridad. "Y pienso devolverles el favor".

Esa era la realidad de la magia: sangre, tripas, semen y saliva, tarros de órganos, mapas para cazar personas y calaveras de bebés nonatos.

¿Por qué prometer magia a los niños? ¿Por qué plantar un anhelo que jamás se podría satisfacer (un deseo de revelación, de transformación) para luego dejarlos a la deriva en un mundo pragmático y desolador?

¿Nunca te has preguntado por qué funcionan las palabras fúnebres. Porque a fin de cuentas no somos nada y no hay cosa más aterradora que la nada.

Las cosas que amas, las cosas que necesitas, te lo arrebatan todo.

If everyone knows you’re a monster, you needn’t waste time doing every monstrous thing.

Gentleman demon. A creature even the dead had feared.

Many boys will bring you flowers. But someday you'll meet a boy who will learn your favourite flower, your favourite song, your favourite sweet. And even if he is too poor to give you any of them, it won't matter because he will have taken the time to know you as no one else does. Only that boy earns your heart. - Six of Crows, Leigh Bardugo

It's the color of the man who tried to kill him and regularly takes me hostage.